


Six Times Mycroft Carried his Brother

by sallysorrell



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brothers, Family, Gen, Holmes Brothers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-25 17:49:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/955951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallysorrell/pseuds/sallysorrell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...and the one time he could not.  Will go from happy/fluffy to dark.  Really dark.  You've been warned :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Admiration

Mycroft knew _exactly_ what was happening. He reminded himself of patterns and figures, but this was not a sufficient distraction from the screaming.

He remembered the screaming, foremost, then the words.

"Mummy?" he felt ridiculous and childish, but did not alter the name, "Mummy?"

She wouldn't hear him. He did not allow the hovering nurse to pat his shoulder; he scooted away and stared at the etched window. His mother was on the other side, with… his brother.

A new phrase, which monopolized his thoughts:

_My brother. My baby brother._

The boy stopped consulting his watch and the window. He had no notion of time, until he stood again before his mother.

"Sherlock," her breath was soft and dry.

Mycroft nodded, and tried to restrain any sort of expression. He was proud, of course, but also concerned and insistent his mother get some rest.

"I'll, er," he began, reaching forward, "I'll hold him."

His mother offered no protest. Mycroft scooped up Sherlock, and tucked the blue blanket back, so he could see the baby's face.

They stared at each other. Mycroft felt somehow indebted to the child, and understood every gentle flicker of his eyes, and confused crumple of his frail fingers. He reached to touch his hands, and memorize his fingerprints. Sentiment.

For the rest of the day, he sat beside his mother's bed, and held his brother. He provided a silent tour of the room, and watched as Sherlock's eyes tried to focus on the flickering machinery. They were grey when faced with metal, but blue against the blanket, and green when near the sterile sheets. Mycroft was fascinated; he always looked at his brother, even when he cried or slept.

Mycroft, however, did not sleep at the hospital. He remained in the room, watching Sherlock fuss in the required crib, as his mother slumped back on her thin mattress. He stayed there, on the plastic-coated chair, and listened to the stories in the machines, lights, and floor. Nurses would stop in frequently, and he would wave them away. One set down a cup of tea and a blanket, and asked if anything else was needed. Mycroft sipped the tea and shook his head. The door creaked shut.

In the morning, when they were scheduled to depart, the storm began. Thunder leaned gently against the hospital walls, and the raindrops awakened the flowers outside. Mycroft enjoyed this sort of weather, and looked fondly at his umbrella, folded beneath the chair.

His mother rustled and awoke, checking instinctively for her boys. Sherlock remained asleep, arms stretched out at his sides.

"Whenever you're ready," said the nurse in the doorway. Mycroft jumped in his seat.

Mummy nodded, and the nurse helped her from the bed and into a waiting wheelchair. Mycroft thought this was ridiculous.

_Completely pointless._

The nurse placed Sherlock carefully in his mother's arms. Both women smiled.

Mycroft picked up his umbrella, and followed them down the corridor to an exit. When they reached the street, Mycroft opened his umbrella. He helped his mother stand, and watched as the nurse turned the wheelchair around, and retreated to the dry, warm hospital.

"I'll hold him," said Mycroft, "I _want_ to."

Never was he so quick in abandoning his umbrella; he folded it and tied it shut, and threw it down in exchange for his baby brother. His mother then took up the umbrella, reopened it, and sheltered them while they considered passing cabs.

For the rest of the day, Mycroft held his brother. He traced his soft fingernails, studied his emerging curls of ginger hair, and found inspiration in his eyes. Especially when enhanced by tears.

If he cried, Mycroft would pat him then pass him, with a sigh, to Mummy. She fed him and cuddled him, but Mycroft _held_ him. His patience was profound.

As the storm continued, and the sky darkened, he carried his brother upstairs to _their_ bedroom. He did not want to let go, so he didn't. He stayed awake, watched, and held him perfectly still.


	2. In Wonder

"Sherlock," began Mycroft, gently, "give me back my umbrella."

The younger boy, hair messy and of undecided colour, shook his head and stared.

"The umbrella," Mycroft repeated, "And _do_ comb your hair, Sherlock. We're going out."

"Shopping's boring. You go yourself."

Mycroft's eyes rolled, just halfway. He took the umbrella, which Sherlock had been using as a pretend-telescope, and replaced it with a comb. The boy shrugged, and immediately caught it in a knot of his hair.

"I'll wait," said Mycroft. He returned to his seat, knowing how much this bothered his brother. Sherlock, when not concentrating on a 'proper' question, liked to be in constant motion. On this particular day, Sherlock made the choice of staring back. His eyes were icy.

"We need to leave, Sherlock," Mycroft reminded him.

The boy continued staring, silently.

Mycroft stood and grabbed his wrists. Sherlock gasped at him; something sounding like 'father', which offended Mycroft beyond reason. He was quick in letting the boy go.

"I'm sorry," Mycroft nodded, "You know I didn't mean it. Come _on_."

Mycroft led his brother out of the house and into the cold, clear morning. The air, recently cleaned by rain and dew, was pleasant to breathe; not yet stained by smoke from the pub next-door.

Sherlock dashed around the puddles, determined to reclaim the umbrella; his plaything but his brother's protection. Mycroft _hated_ how much he leaned on the thing, physically and emotionally, but made no effort to stop. He had to look like a responsible adult, despite the fact he was barely a teenager.

Shopping for their food, of course, was a _responsibility_ , but also a necessity. Mycroft kept a list in his inner coat-pocket, and grinned at Sherlock's urgent addition; always in purple crayon.

"Why did you write 'oranges,' Sherlock?"

The boy waltzed between his brother and the umbrella, stretched out to the side to avoid the water it was made to catch.

"So I don't get scurvy," he clutched Mycroft's coat, "Lemons, too."

"You won't like lemons, I promise you."

The umbrella became a sword; the boy took it from Mycroft's lazily curled fingers, and pointed it at him.

"Lemons."

"Where did you learn that?" Mycroft shrugged and reclaimed his crutch.

"Book."

"Which one?" Mycroft tried to supervise the household bookshelf, and keep the most beneficial books at a level Sherlock could reach. He recalled nothing about pirates, except, perhaps, the encyclopaedia. Which Sherlock, as a six-year-old, had no need to study.

"I don't know the name."

"Yes you do."

Sherlock knew the name and position of _every_ book on the shelf, and on his brother's makeshift desk, and in the stack in Mother's bedroom. He chose not to say anything.

"Most pirates were illiterate," nudged Mycroft. Sherlock nodded, conflicted; he considered forgetting how to read.

They arrived at the preferred shop, where the owner waved at Mycroft and gave him a complimentary newspaper. Their shopping list was short and easily completed. Sherlock volunteered to carry the bag of groceries.

Sherlock ran outside, excited to find the rain returning. The puddles trembled on the pavement.

He jumped into the first one he saw.

" _Sherlock_ ," sighed Mycroft, opening his umbrella, "A different game, please."

"All the other games are boring," he refused to walk beside his brother, out of the rain. He skipped ahead, avoiding everything that _wasn't_ a puddle.

A car ambled by, throwing muddy water on Sherlock and inspiration on Mycroft. He folded up his umbrella, fastened it around his wrist, and caught up to his brother.

"I think you should be a racing-car driver," Mycroft offered his hands, which Sherlock grudgingly accepted, "Much more profitable than being a pirate."

Sherlock nodded. Mycroft lifted him, with some difficulty, so his feet glided over the wet pavement.

"What type of car was that, Sherlock?" As his hands were occupied, Mycroft gestured after it with a sharp nod.

Eagerly, Sherlock provided the model name, and its year of production. As long as he was _flying,_ even if it was through Mycroft's help, he was glad to fulfil every request. He identified each car they passed, even some Mycroft was unfamiliar with.

By the time they returned home, Mycroft's arms ached. He apologised as he set Sherlock down, and reached for the key in his pocket. He did not knock, because he knew the house would be empty.

"I will race you," Sherlock proposed, as the door crept open, "from here to the bookshelf."

"You'll win."

"Yes," said Sherlock, passing the bag between his hands, "But winning's fun."

It was easy to gain Mycroft's agreement. He threw the door open, and watched Sherlock whip up the stairs and round the corner to their rented rooms. The groceries were abandoned on the staircase. Mycroft sighed as he collected them, then pretended to be a competitor in the race. Sherlock smiled down at him, between lengthy breaths.

That night, Sherlock sat in front of the bookshelf, consulting an article on rally-cars, which Mycroft had circled in the newspaper. He yawned several times, dramatically increasing the volume and accompanying gestures until Mycroft looked at him. The older boy was at his desk, working through a favourite book for what Sherlock knew was the eleventh time.

"Tired," said Sherlock, even rubbing his eyes.

" _I'm_ tired," Mycroft corrected him and agreed simultaneously. He continued reading.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and considered the most effective options. Being so tired, he decided against walking to his own bed, and against saying another word. He slumped against the bookshelf and did his best at snoring. Mycroft laughed, but stood and walked to his side. Sherlock smiled, as he felt the footsteps shuffle up beside him. Mycroft's coat brushed over his shoulder.

Mycroft slipped Sherlock's coat off, and replaced it with one of his own dressing-gowns. He stooped to pick the boy up, fabric like a waterfall over their shoulders.

"I know you're awake," Mycroft muttered into Sherlock's ear. The boy tossed one arm over his brother's shoulder, for balance, and giggled.

Mycroft was careful in placing him on his bed, and stretching out the blankets. Sherlock stared across the room to Mycroft's pillow, and was distressed to see it remain empty.

"I'll be reading, while you're dreaming."

"I don't dream."

"Yes you do," Mycroft stepped back toward the desk, "About racing-cars, I hope."

Sherlock knew he was right, but said nothing. He fell asleep quickly.


	3. In Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A warning, for mentions of violence and some adult themes (if you squint.)  
> Please enjoy!

Sherlock, wrapped up in just a blanket, crept into the kitchen, where his brother was yawning and preparing a passable breakfast.

“Are you going shopping today?”

Mycroft did not turn around.  He didn’t need to; the tone and choice of words told him everything he needed to know:

“Sherlock, get dressed.  You’ll be late.”

“Are you going shopping?”

“Yes, of course I am.  You don’t have to go.”

“I’m not going to.”

“Good.”

“I’m not going to school, either.”

Mycroft set down the egg he was preparing to crack against the rim of a bowl, and rubbed his hands over his eyes.  His voice was weary, but the words were firm:

“Yes you are.  Put the kettle on, Sherlock, then go get dressed,” He turned, “I’m not going to ask again.”

“You’re not asking, anyway.”

“ _Go._ ”

Sherlock stormed off to his room, leaving Mycroft to make tea on his own.  He assembled a plate for Sherlock, but wouldn’t force him to eat it.

“Not hungry,” muttered the younger boy, returning, fully clothed, to his chair.

“Fine.”

“Not going to school.”

“You _are_ , Sherlock,” he leaned against the table, so his eyes aligned with Sherlock’s, “I don’t have time to walk with you, today.  I’m going to trust you to walk there yourself.  Are you going to disappoint me?”

Sherlock stabbed his tomato-slice with his fork, “Always do.”

“No,” Mycroft shook his head, “you don’t.”

Sherlock mutilated the rest of his meal before agreeing; he would walk to school, if Mycroft promised never to take him shopping again.  The wealth of people, lights, and signs buried the boy in raw information.  It gave him headaches, and he _hated_ headaches; they made him even less agreeable.

Mycroft, after peering through the window to ensure Sherlock walked in the assigned direction, had chores and schoolwork to finish.  On the average day, the only time he had to himself was the morning.  He would see Sherlock off to school, then walk to his own campus, then to work, then to do the daily shopping.  Even if they were stocked of food, he would collect Sherlock’s favourite biscuits, and a newspaper.

His small slot of freedom was nearly elapsed, as he sat in the kitchen and skimmed yesterday’s newspaper.  Sherlock had been gone for barely an hour.

The phone rang, and it startled him.  He coughed before answering, so his voice would be strict and cooperative, regardless of the news.

This was a worthwhile precaution; Mycroft did not process the words – beyond confirming he was _Mr_ Holmes.  The tone of the woman on the other line conveyed anger and urgency.  He tossed the phone down and, after scowling at the newly-earned money in his pocket, hailed a taxi.

As the woman warned him, he saw Sherlock on the front playing-field, surrounded by staff and other children of varying ages.  Mycroft did not bother with shutting the gate as he ran through it.

“Sherlock?” he shoved a taller man out of his path.

“Mr Holmes,” he recognized the woman as the one from the phone-call, “We’ve just been—”

Mycroft noticed his brother, face covered in blood, bruises and tears, and restrained by a male schoolteacher.  He shook; angry and threatened.

“Don’t you touch him,” growled Mycroft, “Let him go, and talk to _me_ … I said _let him go_.”

“Are you his fa—?”

Mycroft dismissed the question by swiping his unoccupied hand toward the teacher.  As always, the other hand rested on the umbrella.

“You haven’t called for a nurse…” Mycroft knelt to study his brother’s face, which had obviously been ignored.  The drying blood and yellowing bruises told him this.

“We didn’t think it was appropriate, considering the—”

Mycroft tilted his head, and shook with the vicious precision of a cornered snake.  He stepped forward and shoved the teacher away, holding his lapels in both hands.  The umbrella was glad to assist while it dangled, poking the man’s stomach.

Once he was free, Sherlock ceased crying.  He rubbed his mouth while he dashed to safety behind Mycroft.  The woman, from the phone-call, offered no more words or assistance.

“You didn’t think it was _appropriate_ ,” spat Mycroft, “to call a nurse for an injured student?  But you’ll call one for yourself – won’t you? – when I’m through with you.”

The teacher was silent.  Several other men slipped nearer to Mycroft.  Sherlock shuddered.

Mycroft nodded and swallowed his nervousness. 

“Come on, then.”

He collected his damaged brother in both arms, leaving the umbrella tied to his wrist.  Still furious, Mycroft stepped through the crowd, ignoring all the words thrown at him: students called out preferred names for Sherlock, parents demanded apologies, and staff promised the boy’s expulsion.  Mycroft shrugged, muttering to Sherlock how useless the school was, anyway.  The boy’s laugh was strained, but welcome.

Once safely in their bedroom, Mycroft set his little brother down.  With his sleeve, he wiped Sherlock’s face until it was dry, but still smudged with unsettling colours.  Mud, grass, blood, saliva, and over-salted tears composed the mixture.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock offered, sitting beside his brother on the floor.  The wood creaked beneath him.

Mycroft stared at his hands, folded contemplatively over his knee.  His umbrella waited, leaning against the bookshelf.

“For what, Sherlock?”

“I was telling the truth, all day.  I _told_ you I didn’t want to go to school, but then you _made_ me go.”

“Absolutely not.  There is _no_ way for this to be my fault, Sherlock.  What else did you do?”

“I told Jenny how much her father drinks because of her mother’s affair – two litres of gin per week – and I told Michael why he isn’t allowed to visit his grandfather in jail – it’s because he’s in the asylum – and then I had to tell Martha how—”

Mycroft shook his head, just slightly, and sighed.

“There isn’t another private school nearby, Sherlock, and I can’t afford to put you on a cab, every day… especially if you’re going to come home like this, a-and… I’m disappointed in you, Sherlock.”

“I knew you would be.  I _tried_ to fix it.”

Mycroft shifted, to better face his brother, and his eyes glimmered.

“How, Sherlock?  How do you suggest we do that?”

He knew better than to express further monetary worries; the only remaining option was a public school, which Mycroft certainly hadn’t been saving for.

“Vernon tried to be as clever as me.  He told me he saw Mother’s picture on a card in a phone-box, and that he called for her.  He said Father was ‘round at—”

“You know those are lies.”

“And he said you were wasting your time on me,” his lips trembled and he forced his eyes shut, “He said you don’t… care.”

“You know that’s a lie, as well.”

There was a pause, which settled coolly between them.  They shuffled and shrugged.  Mycroft considered any improvements he could make, until Sherlock spoke.  His voice was smug and quiet:

“Yes, I do.  That’s why I punched him in the stomach.  Eight times, then twice in the face.”

Mycroft laughed, then stopped himself.

“You _can’t_ do that, Sherlock,” he looked only at the floor, “It doesn’t matter what people say about us.  They don’t _know_ , but you don’t have to tell them.”

Sherlock scooted to the bookshelf, and retrieved the book Mycroft read most often.  The boy liked avoiding lectures _and_ praise, and considered the book an appropriate occupation of their time together.

“You’re too old to be read to,” Mycroft assured him, in self-constructed shame.  Despite this, he flipped to their preferred passage, marked by greasy fingerprints, outlines of teardrops, and a frayed bit of cardstock with Mycroft’s name written across it in shaky cursive.

Sherlock fetched his blanket, abandoned on the bed from that morning, and leaned against his brother.  He watched the words, seemingly illuminated when touched by Mycroft’s gentle voice:

“’What is my pleasure or convenience compared with that of others? You wish it done, and it shall be done…’” he looked at Sherlock, cuing him to continue.

The boy recited the words from memory.  They did not move on the page when he spoke them, but they danced contentedly within his head:

“’I sacrifice this fair morning on the altar of duty and friendship!’"


	4. In Trust

"Did you pack your books?" Mycroft stood in their bedroom, sorting school-uniforms by size. He tossed Sherlock's into an open suitcase, and his into a waiting drawer.

The boy returned with a stack of books, which his eyes barely cleared. Dramatically, he threw them onto his bed and muttered about school.

"I'll write you a letter every week," Mycroft promised, "And Mummy will bring you home for Christmas Holiday."

"Christmas is boring," Sherlock shook his head, "I don't like it."

"You'll learn to," Mycroft sat on Sherlock's bed, and helped house the books, "Four months away? You'll be counting down the days 'til you can come back."

"Ninety-eight," muttered Sherlock.

Mycroft grinned, and sealed the suitcase. He stood and straightened his waistcoat.

"Get your coat, Sherlock."

Mycroft watched Sherlock button his coat, before putting on his own and retrieving his umbrella from its stand by the desk. Quietly, they descended the stairs and exited the house. Sherlock did not look back at it.

"Which route should we take?" Mycroft asked. He was accustomed to seeing his brother in this focused sort of depression, but wanted to lift it before leaving him alone at school. This was a triumph and an investment, which was not worth losing.

"It doesn't matter."

Mycroft sighed, "Alright."

They made their way to the Underground station, with Sherlock holding one of his suitcases, and Mycroft balancing his umbrella atop the other. Mycroft halted as they approached a busy street, and reached to clasp his free hand around Sherlock's. The boy was suspended in the air for a moment, as Mycroft stepped down from the curb, and Sherlock tried to plant himself behind.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and reminded Mycroft how ridiculous this practice was. They crossed the street confidently, with Mycroft checking for cars, and Sherlock stepping over the zebra-stripes. When they reached the opposing curve, the conversation continued:

"Are you going on the train with me?"

"Of course I am, Sherlock."

"I can go by myself."

Mycroft shook his head and folded his lips.

"I'm sure you can, but I don't want you to. What kind of big brother would _that_ make me?"

They reached a bench at the station, where Sherlock eagerly dropped his suitcases and sat down. Mycroft joined him, shoving him aside so they would both fit. Sherlock had a habit of sprawling across furniture.

"Mother would let me go on the train by myself," Sherlock mused, rubbing at some dirt on his hands.

"That's what makes us different," Mycroft said flatly. He sifted through his coat-pocket, in search of their tickets. This further inspired Sherlock's sour mood:

"Yes," sneered Sherlock, "she's an adult, and you're not."

"What was that, Sherlock?" Mycroft leaned forward, and his fingers suffocated the tickets. The paper crumpled; the corners splintered and tore.

"You're pretending to be an adult," Sherlock proceeded, thrilled to see Mycroft raise his eyebrows, and tilt his chin toward the ground, "You're very bad at it."

Mycroft's eyes pierced Sherlock's, and the air between them grew colder.

"This isn't a good time for you to be resentful, Sherlock," Mycroft crossed his legs, and leaned the umbrella against his knee, "You don't know what I've done, just to get you here. And neither does Mummy, and I'm not going to tell her. I can't tell her; it would kill her. I'm trusting you not to tell her, either."

The boy shook his head, more amused than the situation would usually allow:

"I'm not being resentful; I'm only observing. There's a packet of cigarettes in your pocket, and ground coffee beneath your fingernails. You don't like the coffee; you only drink it if people are watching, and even then, it takes you _ages_ to swallow it. You let it sit on your tongue until the flavour dissolves into your teeth, and makes you feel sick. You cough twice between every sip. You always ask for coffee in restaurants, but I _know_ you'd rather have tea. It's so _obvious_."

"Sherlock, I—"

"Then the cigarettes; you've only finished half of one. Took you eight tries to light it properly, and, even then, you burned both thumbs. You left it in the dirt in front of the house, early in the morning, when no one would be watching. You keep them because you hope someone will ask for one, and be impressed. I know you keep a packet of black liquorice in the opposite pocket, and are a proper addict of _that_."

"Sherlock, please," Mycroft's fingers traced the box in his pocket, "Why don't we play a game, instead?"

"This is a game," Sherlock smiled to himself.

Mycroft sighed. He was not often embarrassed, but carefully considered the observations.

"Anyway, I was going to fix it," Sherlock promised, as his brother turned away. He shuffled into Mycroft's lap, and stared up at him, "It's _okay_ that you aren't good at pretending to be an adult. I'm not, either."

"How so?"

"I tried the coffee once, when you left it in on your desk. I spat it out, straightaway."

Habitually, but in vain, Mycroft wiped his hand carefully over his lips. He remembered finishing this particular cup, then rolled his eyes.

"I picked up the cigarette, and got the ash all over my hands," he showcased them, smudged with brown and grey.

"Sherlock, if you took a single _breath_ of t—"

"It wasn't lit."

"I don't care."

Sherlock did not expect to be met with resistance from Mycroft; always so silently reassuring. He hesitated and selected his words cautiously:

"You did it."

"I _don't care._ "

Sherlock looked at his shoes and kicked his feet through the air, barely above the waiting suitcase.

"Come on, Sherlock," Mycroft sighed, as a train breezed by, "That's ours."

"Are you disappointed in me?" Sherlock pressed, as he picked up his things.

Mycroft remained still and silent. He made sure not to nod his head, nor shake it. He took Sherlock's hand, more agreeably this time, and led him to the boarding area.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock offered.

"I know."

"Are you sorry, for setting a bad example?"

"Now's a good time to stop talking, Sherlock."

They took their seats, stowing away the luggage in the compartment beneath them. Only Sherlock's toes remained on his own seat; the rest of his body was thrown over Mycroft's. The boy slept for the duration of the trip, and, despite his discomfort, Mycroft decided against moving him. Sleep, especially when Sherlock ignored it, was the best remedy for his moods.

* * *

As soon as he returned home, Mycroft reached desperately for a pen, envelope, and pad of paper. The absence of Sherlock brought a sickly quiver to his stomach, and his eyes felt dry.

He considered the day a lesson against being a bad role-model, and aimed to portray a good one, through the letters. He wrote eagerly:

Sherlock,

I promise to make Christmas something _good_ for you, this year. You can look forward to a very exciting gift. You can only have it if you guess what it is. You'll get a clue in every letter. Here is the first:

I often wear a bow in my hair.

The next clue won't be so dreadfully obvious.

Patiently,

Mycroft

* * *

Sherlock kept every letter. He used them as bookmarks, and collected nearly enough for each of his favourite passages by the end of the term.

He watched the snow, sprinkled like salt, as it passed his bedroom window. His bed was the most comfortable place for thinking. The last of his reply-letters sat in front of him, impaled by a pencil. He knew he had to walk to the post office to send it, but was putting off activity for as long as possible.

A resounding knock caused his eyes to open. They darted toward the letter, then the book, then the door. A fitting list of his priorities.

The boy rolled from the mattress, still ensnared in a blanket, and shuffled to the door.

He opened it slowly, and was met by glazy grey eyes, at precisely the level of his own.

"M-Mother? I thought—" he was not disappointed, but confused.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft, after kneeling to collect his brother, picked him up and hugged him.

"Put me down, Mycroft."

"Nice to see you, too."

Sherlock's feet returned to the ground, and, although he tried to mask it, he was genuinely excited to pack his things and go _home_.

"Brought your present," Mycroft said, setting down a carefully-wrapped box, "Did you guess?"

"Obvious," said the boy. He measured the box with his eyes, and counted the time and money Mycroft used to prepare it.

"You can open it when we get home."

This incentive quickened Sherlock's pace; he threw everything into his suitcases and slid the heavier one toward Mycroft's feet. He was excited to carry the gift on his own, along with the note he intended to send to Mycroft.

As promised, he tore the box open the instant they crossed through the front door. He left scraps of paper on the stairs, which Mycroft gathered as he followed.

"Do you like it?" Mycroft asked between composed breaths. The stairs were enough to exhaust him, and Sherlock's antsy fits of action stunned him. The boy had already disposed of the box, and was prying his present open.

No answer was given, as they both stared at the gift. Their smiles were restrained.

Sherlock plucked at the strings, and the violin offered a dry, sickly whine. He reached absently for the page in his pocket, and tossed it at his brother:

Mycroft,

Thank you for your irritatingly frequent letters, and obvious 'hints'.

My gift to you is not ever touching your cigarettes again.

And I've got you a new packet of liquorice (even though I hate the smell of it) and one of those cakes you like.

Sherlock


	5. In Desperation

Mycroft straightened the papers on his desk; he sorted his assigned books, and tested to see which pens were working. _His_ desk, with his name on the front.

Sherlock rarely called while Mycroft was at work. He did, however, continue their tradition of sending letters back and forth. The calls, Mycroft warned him, were not allowed while he was working; he took his internship seriously.

The only call he allowed – somewhat grudgingly – was on his birthday. Sherlock called, just to annoy him, and played him a song on his violin. It was one of his own compositions, inspired by Mycroft's 'horrible new haircut' and 'ridiculous' pocket-watch. He found an envelope, overstuffed with liquorice, on his desk the following morning.

Mycroft had just arrived at the office, checking his pocket-watch against the decorative clock on the facing wall. He hooked his umbrella over the arm of his desk-chair, and leaned his briefcase against a filing-drawer.

The phone rang.

He was determined to answer before the first ring elapsed, in an attempt to impress his supervisor. Most calls were searching for him, anyway, and not for Mycroft. This one was an exception.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock's voice was raspy and confused.

"What, Sherlock?" he glanced at the other desks in the room, hoping he was alone and could not be disciplined for taking a personal call.

"I'm… I don't know where I am."

"Sherlock, you'd better explain yourself—"

"I need…"

The line was silent, apart from his breathing. Mycroft's fingers played absently with the umbrella-handle.

"I'm _busy_ , Sherlock. What do you need?"

"You."

With an alarming clattering sound, the call ended. Mycroft took a steadying breath and rubbed his eyes. He noted the number – that of a phone-box – and tried to write a note to his employer, professionally explaining his absence.

The paper was folded and dropped on the appropriate desk. Mycroft grabbed just the umbrella, leaving the briefcase on the floor, and descended the stairs in his quickest walking pace.

Mycroft's mind was absolutely invented for multi-tasking. As he walked, he weighed the possibility of losing his job against Sherlock's condition. The only options which secured his job, he feared, involved a very serious emergency. Sherlock would not call, otherwise.

Rain fell gently, as the sun steadied above him. Mycroft walked to the phone-box, only several streets away from their home.

He was unsure of what to expect, but shut his eyes upon seeing it. He had to force them open.

"Sherlock?"

The teenager was folded up at the base on the phone-box, shivering and soaking up the rain with his coat. Mycroft knelt and found the phone, suffocated beneath his brother.

He pulled Sherlock up by the shoulders, and was met with resistance. He guessed Sherlock had fallen asleep. Or lost consciousness. He did not know which to hope for.

"Sherlock?" he patted his face, and repeated his name until receiving an answer; Sherlock's eyes opened, but did not focus. They were cloudier than the surrounding sky.

"I'm fine," he slurred, trying to slip out of Mycroft's grasp. This was not permitted.

"What have you done?"

"'M fine…" he repeated. He sat up and pointed to the corpse of a pigeon, collecting droplets of water on its downy feathers.

"What?"

"It was just… just an exp—" he coughed, violently, then struggled to swallow.

"I'm taking you to hospital, Sherlock, right this instant."

"No."

"Oh, yes."

Mycroft dragged his brother into a standing position, and sighed when he leaned against him completely. Only his heels remained on the ground, and these were shaky.

"Put me down."

"Absolutely not."

Sherlock straightened his arms, slipped form between his brother's, and returned to the soppy ground.

"Sherlock," Mycroft began, leaning over to collect him, "why on _earth_ would you call me? You wanted my help, and you're going to get it."

"No, I just needed _you_ ," his words grew more confident, although still slow and sloppy, "Sit down."

Mycroft shrugged, found the driest and cleanest spot of pavement, and sat.

"If you're going to be childish, I'm going to go back to work."

"Please…"

"Please _what_?"

Sherlock stretched out an arm, intending to take the cigarettes from Mycroft's pocket. Mycroft grabbed his arm, though, as it approached.

"What is this, Sherlock?"

His elbow was stiffened by a knot of thick electrical tape, and the veins rippled below it. The skin was yellow and flecked with dirt.

"Experiment," said the teen, trying to smirk, "Quite a good one, too."

"No, Sherlock."

The teenager scooted away, and, although it hurt to do so, folded his arms.

"Don't talk to me like that."

"Don't _do_ things like that, and I won't," he stood, "Hospital, come on."

" _Please_."

Sherlock offered no physical resistance, but his voice crippled Mycroft as it always had. Sherlock was aware of this instinctive weakness, and liked to exploit it.

"What, then?" he loosened his grip.

"Home."

"If you think I'm going to carry you up the stairs, Sherlock, just because you were a _complete_ idiot—"

"I don't think that, I _know_ it."

As Sherlock predicted, it was done. Mycroft dropped Sherlock on his bed, collected his breath, and tugged off Sherlock's coat, hopelessly wet.

"How long were you there, Sherlock?"

"What day is it?"

In anger, Mycroft turned his head and stared.

" _Monday_."

"Friday night."

Mycroft rolled his eyes and promised Sherlock both a meal and a lecture.

Sherlock reached to the table between their beds, and took their favourite book from its new home. As their time in the house rarely overlapped anymore, the book served as a reminder to whichever needed it. He skimmed passages about feasts and friendships and scolded himself for being nostalgic, until Mycroft re-entered the room.

He set down a cup each of tea and coffee, both black.

"You're having the coffee," Mycroft said, nudging the cup toward him.

Sherlock drank it, wincing at the taste, but enjoying the nourishment.

"You've probably cost me my job, Sherlock."

"But not your reputation," muttered the teenager, setting down the empty mug, "I didn't let you take me to the hospital."

Mycroft considered this, nodding gently. He went into the study-room, to put on the fireplace, then returned with a more stately book than that on the bedside table. He sat on the bed, and rolled his eyes as he read.

Once Sherlock was safely asleep, he called his office and vaguely explained the situation. To his surprise, he was praised for tracking a call to a phone-box so quickly, and promised new responsibilities when he returned the next day.


	6. In Understanding

Sherlock set down the last of his boxes. He was delighted to have his own dorm-room, and would put off unpacking for as long as possible.

From his pocket, Mycroft produced an envelope, already addressed and stamped, and set it on the box.

"I expect _one_ letter this year," he explained, as Sherlock studied the paper, "Write whenever convenient."

"Of course," said Sherlock, mocking Mycroft's voice. His older brother shrugged.

"You don't need to do _anything_ you don't want to do – unless I ask. I trust your discretion."

"You selected all of my courses."

"Well, I _am_ paying for them. And if you never leave your room – aside from going to lectures, of course – I couldn't care less."

"You don't want me to make 'friends'?"

Quietly, Mycroft laughed. Sherlock accepted this with a smile, after turning his back. Mycroft was preparing to leave; putting on his coat and shaking the restrained raindrops from his umbrella.

"And Sherlock," he said, standing in the doorway, "if you decide to be an idiot, I want to hear it from _you_ , not your professor."

"That was _once_."

Mycroft titled his head, and sighed with a quick, hot breath. He knew that a further explanation was worthless. Sherlock was still occupied with the envelope, judging the weight of the paper and snickering at Mycroft's initials; embossed on both sides.

"Until next time," offered Mycroft, with a handshake. Sherlock huffed and dropped his hand:

"I can hardly wait _._ "

Sherlock shut the door behind him, then went to shut the window as well.

From his boxes, he took out only things deemed necessary; a blanket, a penknife, several books, and a stack of petri dishes. The dishes were immediately lined up on the warm windowsill, the books were strewn across the bed, and the blanket was transformed into a cape. The knife was enlisted in holding the ridiculous envelope, jabbed into the corkboard on the wall.

Every day, Sherlock wrote to Mycroft. His words were never slipped into the envelope.

He would curl up on his bed, stare at the envelope, and let his hands write whatever words were necessary. Normally, these were comments on the irritating habits of other students, important formulas, or memorized passages from the books. These were added to the corkboard, and consulted when Sherlock became bored.

* * *

Mycroft checked daily for his letter. It only arrived in his nightmares:

_He did not recognize the writing as Sherlock's. Overcome with worry, he tore open the envelope and unfolded a newspaper article. The paper was always several days old. It summarised Sherlock's suicide attempts._

_He read all the words he needed, then found himself at Sherlock's university. They always met in the theatre; completely dark and eerily quiet._

_Sherlock looked down from the rafters, playing with a section of rope. His fingernails caught bits of the fibre and encased them. Mycroft saw this clearly, despite the distance._

_"Sherlock!"_

_Briefly, he offered his eyes. Mycroft met them and shivered when they shut._

_"Sherlock, please."_

_He unfolded the article and held it up. His umbrella clattered to the ground, and he did not pause to retrieve it._

_"Forgot to tell you," mumbled Sherlock, testing the strength of a knot in the rope, "I've been an idiot."_

_Mycroft rushed to him. He stood beneath the rafter and stretched up his arms, desperate to catch Sherlock before the ground did, and carry him home. He would stumble up the stairs, wrap Sherlock in his softest blankets, and uncover the Healer hidden within every older brother. They would converse without speaking, and Mycroft would understand…_

_Before reaching his destination, he heard a loud 'snap'._

_Mycroft hit the ground, buried beneath his brother. No one heard him scream._

At this point, Mycroft awoke, feverishly wiping the sweat from his face. Something stirred in his mind, begging him to call for Mummy, but he remained silent. He was _certainly_ too old for that.

He considered the time on his pocket-watch, waiting on the bedside table. He rolled out of bed, got dressed, and hurried to leave the house. The umbrella was forgotten.

It was odd; sitting between two empty seats on the Tube. The night stretched, yawned, and waited for morning. Mycroft did not.

He leaned back in his seat, crossed his legs, and replayed the nightmare until the instant the train stopped. He stood, and, for what he believed was the first time, _ran_ from the station to find a taxi. The drive to campus was short but torturous.

* * *

Sherlock rolled over and stared at his door. A knocking noise had awoken him, and he tried to recall how he'd fallen asleep on the carpet. He found the answer in the envelope, pinned beneath his arms. He was composing his only letter of the year, and, inevitably, got bored and fell asleep.

Mycroft's eyes were wide, as the door peeled open. Sherlock stared and rubbed his face.

Mycroft nodded, and forced his tears to turn back. He looked fondly at Sherlock, and smiled.

"You came to me instead of Mother?" Sherlock yawned and allowed Mycroft to step inside, "Well, I must applaud your decision, anyway… she can't dispel nightmares; she lives in one."

"Sherlock," said Mycroft, torn between tones.

"Do you know what I do in my dreams?"

Mycroft did not care to answer.

"I step on your umbrella, and it breaks in half. Liberating."

At this point, Mycroft noticed that he had forgotten it. He sat down on the bed, as he had nothing to lean on. Sherlock watched him, and compiled the angle of his eyes, wrinkles in his forehead, and red on his cheeks to form a solid summary of the nightmare. When it was complete, he nodded and sat across from his brother. He explained how little logic was found in suicide, but this did not reassure Mycroft.

Sherlock moved to the floor and retrieved the envelope. He would not meet Mycroft's eyes while he continued:

"I never do _anything_ I don't want to do."


	7. In Death

Mycroft refused to replay the video from his cameras. He counted phone-calls - ignoring all of them – and stared at the stack of newspapers on his desk.

He knew every second of the video-footage. Against his will, he'd memorized every word and action. It was so obvious – the only assurance Mycroft could manage – that Sherlock did _not want_ to step from the rooftop.

He was tricked, beaten, _forced_. Mycroft imagined Moriarty's eyes, glowing through the blinding pool of blood, delighted at their final command. Sherlock glanced down, shuddered, and rushed to find his phone.

Mycroft stood, tightened his tie, and dusted needlessly at his jacket. It was perfectly clean; this was the only day he would ever wear it.

_Forty-four._

Again, Mycroft heard his ringtone. Since the caller was identified, and not an irritating member of the press, desperate to deepen the scandal, he picked it up.

"Just making sure you're ready," Lestrade's voice was gentle, "We're all here."

It took too long for Mycroft to answer. Lestrade said his name, and was cut off:

"Good," breathed Mycroft, "I'll… I'll call you back."

"Take your time."

He was careful in setting his phone on the newspaper, so it covered the worst of the headline; _fake_. With his umbrella, he left his office, and walked to find the funeral procession.

It was not large or dramatic. Molly was there, crying quietly while Lestrade did his best to comfort her. John stood beside Mrs Hudson; they leaned on each other frequently, and they shared a tear-stained scarf. Mycroft recognised it as Sherlock's immediately. Even Angelo, from the restaurant, was there, looking quite uncomfortable in his suit. Mycroft had never met this man, but assumed his role in the party:

The coffin had a journey to make to the hearse. A short journey, but one demanding careful attention and steadfast affection. Mycroft stared at the others, but not at their eyes.

John sighed and moved to one corner, followed by Lestrade, then Angelo.

"I…" Mycroft began, dabbing his eyes despite the fact they were dry, "I _can't_. I'm deeply sorry."

John's eyes were glowing coals. Only after Lestrade accepted this did the soldier nod.

"It's alright," said Lestrade, "I understand."

Molly volunteered to take Mycroft's share of the job, determined not to struggle with the weight and balance.

Mycroft watched, as the case was loaded into the car. He followed it down the road.

* * *

The grass was practically stapled over the ground. It made a frail attempt at covering the patch of dirt and death; Sherlock's burial was completed the previous evening.

Mycroft stepped carefully around the headstone. His umbrella reached into the dirt, stabbing through the blades of grass.

Thunder shattered the clouds, and rain began a race around him. He shrugged and employed the umbrella, while keeping one hand on the stone. He read the name, over and over, until the syllables were strange and turned mechanically over his tongue. It was not _his_ name anymore; Holmes. He had no one to share it with.

He drew inspiration from John, who had managed to speak properly to the grave that morning.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock," he shook his head, "I am so, _so_ sorry that I disappointed you."

He felt bad for not silencing his phone; it buzzed and upset the steady patter of rain and humming of hearts. He swore Sherlock's danced beneath him.

He took a step backward and reached for his mobile. It slid from his pocket and caught several raindrops, as he tried to balance it in one hand, and the umbrella in the other.

"Hello?" he kept his voice quiet, and rushed out of the cemetery.

The words wrapped around his spine:

"I need your help."

He glanced back at the headstone, then, disbelievingly, at his phone-screen. The number was withheld. Mycroft never recalled crying, until the voice on the other line begged his name:

"Please, Mycroft," the words struggled, " _Please_ help me."

"Of course."

* * *

They met in a hidden, shadowy room of the morgue. Sherlock sat, wrapped in a borrowed lab-coat, and coughing up blood. The injury was convincing because it was _real_.

As soon as Mycroft saw him, he reached for his hands. His skin was cold and cracked.

At first, Sherlock was resistant to the hug. Mycroft shoved aside everything he knew about control and collection; he did not want to let his brother go. When he let go, horrible things were free to happen. Mycroft held his baby brother, and would never leave him vulnerable again.

He was overwhelmed with memories of their lives, especially the years of their overlapping childhood. He would carry Sherlock up and down the stairs. He would sit beside him and watch him read. He would wait for him to wake up, and present him with breakfast. He would encourage his dreams and hobbies. He would _care_.

"Let me help you," offered Mycroft. He never remembered crying like this. It did not bring him the pain he expected. From within him, it harvested joy and obedience.

Sherlock wiped his face, then dried his hands on the lab-coat. Mycroft held his brother's head, hands covering the worst part of the wound. Sherlock accepted the warmth, and listened to Mycroft's heart, rushing about in his chest. He shut his eyes:

"I knew you wouldn't disappoint me."


End file.
